Chapter 129: The Method of Respiration

He Changan was meditating on the surface of the lake when the little black sword carved a "Character of Suffering" onto his heart-lake. Because it was so profound, it took him several days to grasp even a meager fraction of its essence. Yet, for He Changan, this was already a tremendous stroke of fortune.

He felt deeply grateful to Mr. Qingyu and the slovenly Daoist Hu Buyu, though some things were inconvenient to voice and unnecessary to say. The three of them knew the truth, but by tacit agreement, they all chose silence, never breathing a word about that meditation on the lake.

Mr. Qingyu returned to his schoolhouse to continue his work as a tutor, occasionally slipping over to the "Wine’s Near" tavern run by Lady Tianhu to wheedle a few drinks and, while he was at it, take verbal jabs at Hu Buyu. It was a secret in Linglong Town that Lady Tianhu was Hu Buyu’s daughter—a secret so obscure that perhaps even she did not know it, still believing her father might be Hu Buyan. However, these were trifles that stirred no waves in the currently turbulent town.

The eyes of all were fixed on Ying Shiyi, the prince from the Demon Court. It was a classic case of the restlessness that comes when things are too quiet. The residents of the small town had been away from the Demon Court for far too long; in some families, with the passing or fall of their ancestors, the continuity of their bloodlines had been severed. For instance, of the Sky Wolf clan, only four brothers remained. They were disparagingly called "mongrels," their bloodlines thin and their combat prowess mediocre, leaving them largely shunned. In Linglong Town, those four lived the most wretched lives.

Ying Shiyi’s arrival stirred the ambitions of families in similar straits. They quickly banded together, intending to pledge their full allegiance to this prince in hopes of securing a future for their descendants. Conversely, families with pure bloodlines and formidable strength, such as the Tianhu and Xuanwu clans, treated Ying Shiyi with utter indifference, regarding him as less than nothing. If he wanted to discuss grand affairs, they demanded he present a token from the Royal Court.

Naturally, Ying Shiyi had no such token, but he was patient. Even after being repeatedly turned away by the noble-blooded families, he continued to visit with his retinue every few days. In particular, he visited Lady Tianhu’s "Wine’s Near" every night, throwing gold around like dirt, a display that made the fallen families burn with envy and desire, eager to follow this "great man" back to the Demon Court to make their mark.

Of course, there were those who watched with cold eyes: the old woman and the burly man from the Mountain Dwelling Inn. If you came to stay, you were a guest; once you stepped outside, you were a stranger. As long as you didn't bother the old couple’s business, they didn't care. The entire town was shrouded in a strange, uneasy prosperity, and everyone felt that something massive was about to happen.

The old man at the Chen Family Pharmacy was an exception, as was He Changan, who remained an outsider to it all. Perhaps because of this, the two began to associate more frequently. Sometimes, He Changan would bring a few baskets of buns and a jug of sorghum liquor, and the old man and the young man would drink in silent companionship for an entire afternoon.

During this time, He Changan’s mind was entirely occupied by the "Character of Suffering" on his heart-lake. Even while drinking, his handsome face wore a look of perpetual distress. Finally, one day, the old man could no longer hold his tongue and remarked that it was a pity for someone so young to spend his days in such deep contemplation, looking like a little old man. He commented that such a gloomy spirit was not the way of the Dao.

He Changan thought for a moment and bowed in earnest thanks, though he did not offer any silver. Instead, he presented the old man with a piece of logic: if a person did not take advantage of their youth and vigor to ponder matters greater than themselves, they would be unable to do so once they were old and frail.

"Is this what you humans often say: the youth does not know the value of gold, and in old age, one sighs at an empty purse?" the old man asked with a straight face.

He Changan was stunned for a long moment before he burst into laughter. It was a cold joke.

"I want to make a deal with you. You may refuse, of course," the old man said. This was the first time he had initiated a trade, which surprised He Changan. There were no simpletons in this town, so one couldn't afford to be naive.

After careful consideration, He Changan nodded. "Please, tell me, Senior."

"So you accept this trade?" The old man’s smile, half-amused, gave him the look of an old fox, making He Changan pause for a few breaths.

"I accept, but with a condition," He Changan said. "Scholars say that one should be true to their word and unite knowledge with action, but one must also know how to act within one's capabilities. I hope your deal does not exceed my capacity." These words were borrowed from an old scholar, quite unlike the rigid, self-sacrificing rhetoric of orthodox scholars like Zhao Zheng or Du Shisan.

The old man’s eyes glowed as he stared at He Changan for several heartbeats, then he suddenly smiled and held up a finger. "Good. For those words alone, I will add an extra point of interest to your end of the bargain."

He Changan did not understand what this "point of interest" meant, but he did not ask. The old man’s rules were firm: to ask a question, one had to pay in silver. Even when someone came to him for healing, the consultation fees were counted as part of the cost, for according to the old man, that was a vital part of the cure.

"I will teach you a method of respiration. Remember, I will only teach you once." The old man slowly packed his pipe, took a deep puff, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. This formed an isolated space more than three yards wide, and then he began to transmit his words directly into He Changan’s mind.

The technique was called "Green Sheep." It consisted of a little over three hundred characters and was not particularly difficult to recite. He Changan memorized it in one go. To ensure he didn't miss a detail, he used the little black sword to carve the words onto his heart-lake.

A strange scene unfolded. As the old man finished explaining the final passage, He Changan was still pondering the key points. Suddenly, the text carved on his heart-lake shattered into a burst of golden light that sank to the bottom of the lake. In the depths of his consciousness, a golden page appeared, glowing with radiant, fist-sized runes that gradually dissolved into his sea of awareness.

A breathing technique that appeared simple but was actually incredibly complex had been learned with such ease? He silently practiced the method, feeling a sense of total clarity and fluidity, as if he had practiced it a thousand times over.

*Can it really be this simple?*

He Changan kept his composure and practiced the technique once more, perfectly and without error. Only then did he feel relieved and look up at the master before him.

The old man gave a cryptic smile, packed another pipe of tobacco, took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then blew a thick cloud of smoke directly into He Changan’s face. He Changan was immediately sent into a fit of coughing, his eyes and nose streaming, looking utterly disheveled.